


My Party

by kerokerobonito



Category: Rockman | Mega Man - All Media Types, Super Smash Brothers, 新・光神話 パルテナの鏡 | Kid Icarus: Uprising (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Deepest Lore, Fluff, Friendship/Love, M/M, fun times, once again teen drinking is VERY bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 04:50:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17501906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerokerobonito/pseuds/kerokerobonito
Summary: Pit wanders through a high school party and runs into a friend. (Orphaned under the title "Souk Eye"-- reuploaded with minor changes & fixes)





	My Party

**Author's Note:**

> hiiiiiiii i know this fic is already on the site; it was bc i didn't want my name on it bc i was kinda embarrassed of how much i love this ship and my dumb au. but i got like 5 nice comments on it saying i should write more so i made a new account just to post more!!!!!! so i'm putting this fic on a real account so i can make sequels and expand the FAHCU (Fils Aime High Cinematic Universe). enjoy!

The party wasn't as fun as Pit thought it would be.  
  
Honestly, he doesn't know what he'd expected— he'd seen movies, heard stories about high school parties. How everybody gets too loud and rowdy. How they all drink like it's the end of the world. None of that seemed fun, so he stayed bored and sober and alone on the couch as all of his friends got drunker and drunker. Pit decides he’s had enough after the belligerent Yu-Gi-Oh fight between Ness and two weird kids with parkas, running up the grand spiral staircase just as Link smashes an ornate vase on the marble floor. He has no idea where his brother is.  
  
It's a beautiful house, Pit notes; he doesn't know whose it is or who could possibly afford it, but it's absolutely gorgeous. It must belong to somebody from a private school. There's a beautiful chandelier hanging above the center of the staircase, hundreds of little glass pieces reflecting light onto the masses of teenagers below. He’s met with a long hall of nice doors when he finally makes it to the top, picture frames that have more certificates and magazine covers than actual people. There’s shelves covered with strange little metal parts in glass cases, everything in the architecture looking both classic and modern at the same time.

 Pit starts to open up doors, starting from the right. The first door is locked. The second door is locked. The third door opens to reveal a couple making out and three other kids holding some drug-looking thing that Pit doesn’t even recognize, so he yells an apology and slams it back shut straight away. The fourth door is closed. He switches to the left side of the hall. The first door is locked. The second door is—

 The door swings open, revealing a large neat bedroom with a neatly-made king-size bed and a cool-looking lamp clicked on by its side. The lamp glows a soft amber, and it casts projections of constellations onto the room’s ceiling. _Cool_.

 Pit decides to look around the room, shutting the door behind him. It’s big with modern furniture and a nice hardwood floor unlike the marble in the rest of the house, and it’s warm, and it smells sweet and clean like soap. Maybe lavender-scented soap like Phosphora used to use. There’s a desk near the back of the room with open notebooks and crumpled paper all across the surface, books piled about the surrounding floor in organized stacks. Pit decides to take a look at one of the graph-ruled notebooks; there’s these really realistic looking sketches of what seems to be a car part or an engine, each one from a different angle. He thinks either his dyslexia’s extra bad today or whoever wrote the little inscriptions has really terrible handwriting, but on closer inspection, the notes are in characters that _definitely_ aren’t English. Again, _really cool_.

 Pit hums, wheels around a bit more. There’s a second door leading somewhere to the left, a light glowing from underneath. There are diplomas and stunning report cards and acceptance letters made out to Hitoshi Raito pinned up on the walls. Raito, like the company. It must be a pretty common name, though, because a guy in his English class has that last name. Pit doesn’t know a Hitoshi, but he has to admit that the dude has a pretty sweet room. He can still hear the music booming downstairs, hears his friends yelling and fighting. Maybe he’ll just stay up here for the night. It’s nice in here.

 So Pit makes up his mind, kicks off his shoes and flops down onto the bed. The blue comforter is soft and clean, and the pillows smell like flowers. He wishes his room could look like this. God, rich people have it so _good._ He pulls out his phone and starts up one of those game apps that he has for road trips when there’s no wifi and he doesn't have anything else to do.

 He kills about ten minutes before he gets to thinking about what Pittoo’s up to. Pittoo’s been in a real rough mental place right now because of his whole thing with the mean blonde girl from the gardening club, so Pit’s genuinely worried that he’ll go overboard with the drinking. He already got blackout drunk at that one Halloween party at Corrin’s house, and he seems to have done something that really messed him up. Pit just hopes that he doesn’t do anything else he’ll regret.

 Pit buries his face in the pillow at that thought, breathing deep and tranquil. He’s really doing the right thing by just staying up here where nothing crazy’s gonna happen, where he can't get into any trouble—

 That’s when that random door on the right suddenly opens, revealing a cloud of steam and what looks like a bathroom. Pit’s head jerks up. And in the doorway, there’s what looks to be an unbelievably shredded guy in nothing but a towel.

 “... Um, hi,” says the guy, and Pit almost goes into cardiac arrest right then and there. Whoever it is, he’s got shoulders that go about six thousand miles wide with _incredible_ arms at either side, thick and firm and toned, the kind of arms that could just _crush_ somebody, and there’s droplets of water rolling down his chest and his abs from his wet black hair, so much perfect smooth pale skin and so much sleek muscle and Pit needs to stop staring _now._

 He yelps, flings himself over the other side of the bed, hitting the floor and bending his knee in a way that it shouldn't bend, his phone clacking on the ground. His face is hot, and his mind is suddenly fried. So _that’s_ why the room smelled like soap. Pit feels unbelievably stupid.

 “I-I’m sorry!” Pit yells, crouching down, holding his hands and his phone over the back of his neck like you're supposed to in school earthquake drills. “I thought the room was empty! I’m so sorry! Please don’t beat me up!”

 There’s a beat, and then the guy breathes a laugh. “What?”

 “I’m not a perv or anything, I swear! I just wanted to get away from all the noise— I’m— I’m sorry I stared at you so long!”

 There’s footsteps across the hardwood, and then the guy’s voice sounds again with, “Oh, me too. I don’t like crowds.” He’s closer this time. His voice is soft and a little awkward. It doesn’t really fit with his whole other Unbelievably-Shredded aspect. “Here, do you need some help?”

 Pit takes a few deep breaths. So the guy isn't mad. That’s a good thing. Maybe he’s another bored sober partygoer who wanted to hide out and incidentally wanted to take a shower. Hesitantly, he takes his hands off his neck and sits up a little and turns around to look at him—

 The guy is holding a hand out to Pit, and, yeah, he’s still just wearing a towel. That’s, uh. Wow.

 Pit opts to look down at the floor as he grabs his hand, blushing like crazy when the guy pulls him to his feet with what seems like no effort whatsoever. He laughs nervously, trying not to look like a creep. He sure _feels_ like a creep. “Th-thanks,” he says, putting his phone in his pocket, hoping that it isn’t cracked again.

 “No problem. Do you want to sit down?”

 Huh. This guy is, like, _really_ nice. Pit thinks for a second that it’s because he _likes_ Pit or something, but then he gets his mind out of the gutter and focuses on the fact that there are people out there who are super nice for no reason at all. Like his mom. Jeez, he _really_ shouldn't be thinking about his mom while he’s in a bedroom with some almost-naked stranger. This is bad.

 “W-what, I can stay?” Pit asks, already taking the offer and sitting down on the bed because he feels like his knees are gonna give out.

 “Of course you can stay.” And the guy—

 The guy gets on the bed with him. What the heck. What in the absolute _heck._

 Pit flinches a little bit, bending his legs and holding his knees close, protectively. “What do you—” oh, God, he’s shaking so hard he’s forgetting words— “What do you think you’re _doing_?”

 The guy goes still for a second. He drums his hands methodically on the comforter. Pit is having some _awful_ thoughts right now. He shouldn't be thinking about any of this. Maybe he should just go downstairs and get drunk as eff and forget any of this ever happened.

 Then, the guy goes, “I thought we could talk or something.”

 “... Talk?”

 Is that code for something else?

 “Yeah. You’re always so great to talk to.”

 Oh, no, this guy’s probably mistaking him for someone else. That’s why he’s being so nice. Crud. Pit feels even dumber.

 Pit still wants him to be nice to him, so he decides to play along with it. And talking is a lot less sinful than the stuff he was thinking about, so.

 “... Okay,” Pit chirps, his voice cracking. “Let’s talk, then. Um. H-how long have you been in this room for? ‘Cause I’ve only been here, like, twenty minutes.”

 The guy hums, shifting his weight a little. Pit looks up, catches an eyeful again, and looks back down. At least he’s wearing a towel, he supposes. Could be worse. Could’ve come out naked. That would've been awful. All muscular and perfect and bare and covered in water with nothing to dry himself off on and Pit would’ve been able to see— oh, _jeez_ , _calm down, calm down, stop being so gross—_

 “Well, we’ve moved twice since we first immigrated, so… I think I’ve been in here for five years.”

 “Huh?”

 “This was my brother Blues’ room at first, but then he got jealous of the larger windows in the room down the hall, so he made me trade. That was when I was thirteen. Ergo, five years.”

 “Oh, okay.” Something slowly clicks in Pit’s mind. “Wait— this is _your_ room?”

 “Uh… yeah?”

 “So this is… your… _house?”_

 “Uh-huh.”

 “So _you’re_ Hitoshi Raito?”

 “No.”

 Pit snaps his fingers. “Dangit. I was on a roll there. I felt like a Sherlock Holmes or something.”

 “... You mean a detective?”

 “Well, I don’t need to know _which_ Sherlock Holmes I am. No need to get specific.”

 The guy goes quiet for a second. Probably blown away by Pit’s intellect. “I was— I was only joking, by the way. You’re right. I’m Hitoshi. I thought it was obvious.”

 “So I _was_ right! Sweet!” Pit throws a fist up, accidentally looking at the guy’s chest again. He takes his fist down, covering his eyes with it instead. “H-hey, ‘Toshi, my man. I think the conversation would get better if you had a shirt on.”

 “It would?” He leaves the bed. “Well, okay.” There’s footsteps, then the sound of a drawer in front of the bed being opened.

 That was… easy.

 Pit lets out a relieved puff of air, sticking his legs out in front of him. “Oh, good,” he sighs, laughing a little bit. “I can talk to you a lot easier now. Gotta admit— you really had me freaked out for a second there, Hitosh. Woo,” he chuckles. “Are you fully clothed yet?”

 “Yeah.”

 Pit uncovers his eyes, finding that the guy is now wearing blue flannel pajama pants and a loose gray sweatshirt with a picture of a yellow cartoon fuel tank on it, and his face is—

 Oh, shoot.

 “... Rock?” Pit says hoarsely.

 “Yeah?” answers Rock Raito from English class, combing his wet hair back with his fingers before using the towel to dry it off a bit more.

 Shoot, shoot, _shoot._

 It was Rock Raito from English class this entire time. This _entire_ time. He talks to Rock at school every single freaking day. They text each other all the time. He’s one of Pit’s favorite acquaintances.

 Pit only didn't realize it was him because he never looked up at his face. He was only looking at him from the neck down.

 Pit is a creep. Pit is the creepiest creep of all time.

 “... Uh… Nice house, dude,” Pit chuckles uncomfortably. His face is burning. He wants to sink into the floor.

 Rock smiles just a little bit like he does in class when Pit passes him a note or comes up with a new idea for what Mr. Layton could be hiding under his top hat as he lists out literary themes of _The Open Boat_ on the board. “Thank you.”

 “Seriously, it’s beautiful. I didn’t know you were ri—” oh, right, rich people hate being called rich— “... Upper… middle… class.” Is that a thing? It sounds like a thing. It’s probably a thing. “Perfect for a big party like this. Hey, why did you throw a party if you don’t like crowds?”

 “Oh, _I_ didn’t throw the party,” Rock says, walking over to the bathroom door to hang the towel meticulously on a silver hanger, pulling the corners until there’s no wrinkles and the ends are matched up evenly. “My brother did.”

 “Your brother Blues?” Pit proudly remembers from earlier. Him and Rock talk a lot, but it’s mostly just fun stuff like jokes about the stuff they’re reading or maybe about the comics or movies or shows that they both like. They don’t know a lot about each other. Well, Rock probably knows a lot about Pit, since Pit tends to overshare. Pit certainly didn't know that Rock’s practically a kajillionaire— he always wears the plainest clothes, and he walks home past the middle school every day instead of driving. He also wasn’t aware that Rock’s a  freaking _bodybuilder_ or whatever on the side. How can you be that smart and that buff at the same time? It doesn’t seem to add up. Pit always thought you had to make a choice between brains or athleticism. He made his decision as soon as he joined the track team in middle school.

 “Yeah. He’s home from college all week, and my sister Roll is at this Science Camp upstate, so—”

 “Hold on,” Pit puts his hand out as Rock joins him on the bed, and Rock freezes. “Your name is Rock… your sister’s name is Roll… your brother’s name is _Blues_?”

 “My dad really likes music.”

 Pit immediately cracks up because that might be the greatest thing he’s heard in his entire life. Then he notices a flaw in the logic, and he feels like a Sherlock Holmes again when he asks, “Wait, if you’re Rock, who’s Hitoshi?”

 “ _I’m_ Hitoshi. That was a joke, again. My dad didn’t really name us those things.”

 “Oh.” Pit chuckles sheepishly. “Wow, man, you’re so deadpan. It’s kinda hard to tell when you’re joking.”

 “I’m sorry.”

 “No, no, it’s okay!” Pit gives him a smile, scratching his neck. “I don’t mind at all. You just might need to tell me clearly ‘cause I can be a bonehead sometimes. If your name’s Hitoshi, though, then why does everybody at school call you Rock?”

 “It’s an old nickname. Me and my siblings have nicknames that our nanny used to call us when we were babies. I used to rock back and forth on my back, my sister used to roll around instead of crawling, and my brother used to cry a lot.” He shrugs. His hair’s sticking up a little bit. Pit wants to reach out and pat it down. “The names sort of stuck with us. Plus, our dad told our nanny that he wanted us to all pick out American names so we’d be more normal when we went to school. They’re not normal, but we really liked them.”

 “Oh, that’s really cool! My nickname’s from my mom. Apparently, I used to look like a Cupid when I was a baby.”

 “A cherub?”

 “Again, I’m not being specific. Any Cupid is fine. So she wanted to call me ‘Pid’ for short, but it sounded kinda lame, so. Pit. And my brother is Pittoo, because, uh. He also looked like a Cupid, and there’s two of us.”

 “Interesting.” Rock looks at him intently. He has the nicest squareish face, all sharp at the edges and warm in the eyes. And his hair is all black and shiny and cool. Rock usually has glasses. Maybe he put contacts in or something. He wears contacts to school sometimes. Rock is… _really_ handsome. Pit’s always kind of thought Rock was a little handsome, but after learning a little bit more about him, and after seeing him in nothing but a bath towel—

 Downstairs, there’s the distinct sound of another vase shattering, and Link hollers immediately afterwards. Pit wants to laugh, but Rock looks so tired all of the sudden. He sighs through his nose. “I wish Blues didn’t throw this party. At first he wanted it to be just for him and his stupid British engineering friends—“

 “Oh, weren’t you telling me about them last week?” Pit distinctly remembers a brief conversation about a blonde British guy and his big loud friend and a mean-looking hot girl with an air rifle scrounging through Rock’s kitchen in the middle of the night with his brother.

 “Yeah, them. It turns out the rifle girl’s little brother goes to our school, and he ended up telling everybody there was a party here.”

 “Gross. A freshman, prolly.”

 “Yup. I think he wanted people to think he was cool.”

 “Man, I’m sorry. It’s gonna take so long to clean—”

 “It’s going to cost so much to hire a cleaner,” Rock groans instead. Wow. Pit hopes he makes enough money someday to pay somebody else to do his chores. “I already donated half of my allowance, so I might need to ask Roll to pitch in when she gets back. I feel so bad asking her to help with things like this. It feels like we’re always just cleaning up after Blues’ messes.”

 “Wait, you _donated_ your allowance? To what?”

 “Oh— I usually save a portion of the money my dad gives me to support the school. The Athletics department was asking for sponsors for the track team, and I knew you were on the track team, so I pitched in. I don’t really talk to anybody else who plays sports.”

 “Holy heck, Rock!” Pit laughs incredulously, in sheer disbelief. “Coach Magnus said we could only afford the new van ‘cause of one donator— that was _you?”_ When Rock nods, Pit feels his brain explode. “Half… _half_ of your allowance... is a twenty-seated _van.”_

 “Yeah, but honestly? I researched the van that the school board bought, and it costs several thousands of dollars _less_ than what I donated. I think there may be a conspiracy in which administrators are keeping money for themselves. I don’t have much evidence, though.”

 Pit wants to be rich _so_ bad.

 He feels sort of embarrassed after that exchange. He stops being excited and he just feels poor. He hates feeling poor. This feels just like that time his card got declined at Pizza Hut. He should change the subject. What do people talk about? Pit has somehow forgotten every possible conversation topic in the world.

 “Uh…” Pit sits up a little straighter, pressing his fingertips into the duvet again and again. “What’s your, um… Okay, okay, if you’re throwing a party right now, then where are your parents?”

 “Well, my dad’s probably at his place in Kyoto.”

 “Oh, like a business trip?”

 Rock makes a face. “Um… sort of?”

 Pit’s mind goes wild with the response. Maybe Rock’s dad is doing shady business. Maybe Rock’s dad is in the yakuza or something. Hold on, would it be racist to assume that his dad’s in the yakuza? No, no, it’s just like joking about somebody being in the mafia because they're Italian. It’s more stereotypical than racist. Well, stereotyping _any_ group like that is still pretty bad. How would Pit feel if people assumed that his family was involved with cartels or something? Wait, no, bad example— Mom’s never really had any connections with _cartels_ , per say, but she _has_ told him and Pittoo some stories about how she was in a gang as a teenager in order to scare them away from trouble. So maybe they’d be kinda right in assuming. She was a big deal in her gang, too. She had people calling her this fancy title and everything. _Palutena: La Diosa de Dolor._ What would that be in English? The Goddess of, and then, dolor. Which is like… the thing that makes you go _ouch_ , y’know? Dang. This always happens whenever he tries to translate on their family trips to Mexico. He knows exactly what everything means, but he can’t remember the right words for the freaking life of him—

 Man, Pit just got _way_ off track right there. “What do you mean?” he asks, being super careful not to bring up the yakuza.

 “I mean, he doesn’t really live here, so it isn’t really a business trip.” Rock explains. “He has so many meetings all over East Asia that it wouldn’t make any sense for him to live all the way out here.”

 Pit hums and nods like he totally gets it. Ness’s dad is like that too, right? He lives in another city for his job and keeps in touch with his family over the phone. “So you live with your mom?”

 Rock makes another face. Possibly a worse face. “... No? I don’t know where she is.”

 “What?”

 “I’ve never met my mom.” He stops himself, amending with, “I suppose we met when I was _born,_ of course, but I don’t have any real memories of her.”

Pit can’t even fake-understand at this point. Maybe his mom died? No— he mentioned having a little sibling. She must’ve been around for a _little_ while, then, right?  “How can you not know your mom if you have a little sister, too?”  
  
“We all have different moms. We’re half-siblings. That’s why Roll’s blonde.” Rock looks up at the ceiling. “My dad was pretty selfish back in the day. He was with a lot of women. I probably have more half-siblings in Japan that I don’t know about.”

 “O-oh.”

 “When we were kids, our nanny and her wife lived here and took care of us. I consider them my real parents.”

 “Um,” Pit cocks his head, “what were their names?”

 “Miss Rosalina and Miss Aran. When Blues turned eighteen, their contract was up, and my dad made them leave because we were old enough to take care of each other. And when I turned eighteen, he let Blues go off to college. So I just live here with Roll. And our dog, Rush. Blues made him stay in his pen in the backyard tonight so that the crowd doesn’t freak him out. I don’t do much after school because I need to look after Roll. We have drivers and cooks and housekeepers and everything, but I want to spend as much time with her as I can so that she isn’t lonely, so I walk her home from school every day and things like that. She’s only twelve. I worry about how she’s going to turn out. I wish she had a normal life.”

 “Oh. Well, I’m… sorry.”

 “Oh, no, it’s totally fine,” Rock assures him. “I have a good relationship with my dad, anyway. He just isn’t really a parent to me, I guess. He thinks I’m this big prodigy or something. He’s always calling me to check his math or give him dumb ideas.” He folds his hands on his chest, interlocking his fingers. “A lot of the times It’s like I’m his assistant or something.”

 After that conversation, Pit feels conflicted. On one hand, the fact that this already-attractive-acquaintance-guy is showing a ton of honesty and vulnerability and compassion for his broken family out of the blue is making Pit’s heart jump out of his god dang chest. This, this right here? This is _perfect_ husband material. On the other hand, Pit has no idea what to say to all of it. He wants to change the subject again. He can't make heads or tails of this. “What’s your dad’s job?”

 Rock seems distracted. He’s staring up at the amber constellations projected on the ceiling. “Huh? Oh, he founded Raito back in '87. He’s the CEO.”

 Pit is effing speechless. Okay. Okay, this might as well happen. Rock’s dad might as well be Thomas Raito, a Nobel-prize-winning inventor, the head of one of the biggest phone/computer/AI/whatever companies on earth, one-half of the epic Raito Inc.-Wiley Industries feud that has been a facet of nerd culture for literal decades. Jesus Christ, _okay_.

 Pit decides to stifle a shocked noise, and he decides not to bring up the fact that his phone is a Raito DLN model from 2011, and he _definitely_ decides not to ask if he knows how to replace the screen for him.

 Instead of all that, Pit tries to collect himself, looking Rock in the eyes to try and be respectful. Rock has lovely deep brown eyes. “So, uh… if you don’t mind me asking… if your dad is one of the richest people in the w— uh, I mean, if your dad is really financially stable, then why do you go to Fils Aime High and not some good private school?”

 Rock’s expression actually lightens up a bit. “Because I wanted to,” he states plainly, sitting up. “We originally moved to America because we would be somewhat famous if we stayed in Japan. I convinced my dad to let us live in a small town and go to public schools with normal classes and normal communities. It took a lot of arguing over the phone, but Blues and I managed to stop him from moving us to the east coast to go to school with a bunch of self-centered kids who’ve gotten their way their whole lives. The AP classes here are stimulating enough, so we’ve never had any complaints. And Roll’s happy at the middle school, too.”

 Pit lets out a loud breath. “Jeeeee—”

 The long “jeez” is cut short by a loud conversation from outside Rock’s door. A high voice goes, “You know what? You know what, dude?” and it sounds drunk.

 And a low voice goes, “What?” and it sounds drunk too.  
  
The high voice goes, “Your raps are _shit!_ You should just delete your goddamn Soundcloud!”

 “Are you s—”

 “You’re like a phone on Cricket Wireless: no bars!”  
  
“I don’t _believe_ this, Katy,” goes the low voice, a little somber.

 “Oh, you _better_ fuckin’ believe it, Parappa,” says the high voice, spitting angrily afterwards.

 After that, it sounds like Katy tries to hit Parappa but misses. Then there’s loud footsteps out of the hall and down the stairs, and some yelling, and then somebody goes, “ _Shots_!” really loud and far away, and there’s cheering and more running, and then it’s silent again.

 They sit like that for a little bit, just sort of staring at the door.

 “Do you like it here, Pit?” He asks out of nowhere, asking it like he legitimately wants to know the answer instead of like stupid smalltalk. “I like it here. I always feel a bit disconnected, but I like going to a school that has a lot of different kinds of people. And I, um.” Rock suddenly looks down, picking at his nails restlessly. “There’s a lot of pretty girls here,” he chuckles to himself abashedly, and Pit suddenly feels elated that he’d mentioned something legitimately _relatable_. “My dad wanted me to go to an all-boys’ school, so. Even if I’m too shy to talk to them, I’m really glad we convinced him to let us stay here.”

 “You don’t have a girlfriend?”  
  
Rock chuckles some more, soft and awkward. “Is that a surprise?”

 “Well, _yeah,_ dude,” Pit laughs, “You’re just a really cool, really ripped, really really well-off guy. I mean, you’re super nice whenever we talk, and you’re totally ripped, and you come up with answers in class so quick that it’s like you’re a _computer_ or something. Girls _love_ quiet, smart, mysterious ripped guys like you. Uh… did I say ‘ripped’ already?”

 “Y-you did,” Rock starts to twist a half-wet lock of hair in his finger, “you said it already. I don’t really get that kind of attention, though. I mean, I’m kind of self-conscious about it. I always wear long sleeves. I only work out so much because we have a decent gym in the basement and it’s a way to pass time and stay healthy. I hate running, so I, uh, try to get exercise other places instead. I don't know. It’s nothing impressive.”

 “Are you kidding me, man? That’s the most impressive thing I’ve ever heard in my freaking _life,”_ Pit throws a hand out, trying to ignore the fact that he just implied that there’s an entire gym in his basement. “You just lift weights and stuff in your free time? For fun?”

 “Yeah.” Rock looks away, smiling bashfully. It’s so _cute._ “I don’t really talk to any girls anyway. I can never work up the nerve. I bet _you_ never have that kind of problem, huh? You’re really popular.”

 Pit almost busts out laughing. “Dude.”  
  
“What’s up?”  
  
“Do you seriously think that I’m popular with girls? I can barely even _look_ at most of the girls here without getting all flustered and looking like an idiot—”  
  
“You _are_ popular, though. Did you not know that?”  
  
Pit squints, leaning in a little bit. “Um, no? Because I’m _not?_ ”

 Rock seems just as confused as he is. “Yes, you are. Even just in the period we have together, there are several girls who seem really interested in you.”  
  
“What? Who?”  
  
“Elise N., Nowi D.,” he starts to list out on his fingers, “Ashley W., Nilly V., Rin K., Nana T.— I don’t know if Kirby’s a girl or not, but they really like you too—”

 “What, what, _what,”_ Pit says, his heart hammering, “how do you— _what_ ? How do you even _know_ all of this?”

 “Because they talk to you in class like they’re flirting. And a couple of them have even told you explicitly that they like you. You never seem to react, though,” Rock notes.

 It’s official: Pit is the dumbest human being on the face of the earth.

 “But… but girls don’t like me,” he tries to argue as reality crumbles apart beneath him. “‘Cause I’m immature and I’m a klutz and I’m all skinny and gangly and weird and I’m not tall enough.”

 “Pit, you’re charmingly friendly and approachable and easy to talk to and you’re in good shape and you’re six feet tall.”

 Pit feels a little bad after that because he takes into account the fact that Rock is about half a foot shorter than him. “W-well, yeah, but my mom’s six-foot-five, so...! I should be taller!”

 Rock’s squinting at him, and it almost seems like he’s trying not to laugh. “Why are you upset about this? Do you not like girls?”

 “I— of _course_ I like girls,” Pit squeaks, feeling himself start to blush like earlier. “I… I just never really thought about anybody actually liking me back, okay? Whenever a girl says something too nice, I just assume she’s messing with me. That’s what I _always_ think. I have this whole system for liking girls from afar and everything.”

 “Okay,” Rock offers. “Explain your system to me.”

 It honestly kind of feels like a trap. Maybe Rock’s messing with him, too. Would Rock do something like that? Eh, probably not. He seems like a really good guy. In any case, Pit just takes a breath and starts off with, “Okay: so, since I’m a senior, I only let myself like girls who are also seniors, because I feel gross liking girls who are younger, even if they're, like, juniors or something. And I also don’t let myself like girls who are already in a relationship, because that _also_ makes me feel gross. And I can’t really talk to them first because I don’t wanna be one of those guys who just bugs everybody all the time. I always hear girls complaining about skeevy dudes who won’t leave them alone, so. I don’t wanna be gross like that.”

 Rock looks a little bit concerned. Then again, he always looks like that. “It seems like a lot of things make you feel gross.”

 Pit chuckles. “Well, yeah. I gotta have _morals_. If I don’t feel guilty about thinking bad stuff, I’ll just be like every other guy at school.” He briefly thinks about passing conversations he’s overheard while walking through the quad, and he winces a little. “That’s also why I don’t like swearing or staying up too late or looking at weird stuff online. It all just feels so… _gross._ I dunno.”

 Rock rests his chin on his hand like he’s deep in thought. He looks so smart like that. “I suppose that makes sense, but mentally punishing yourself for just _thinking_ about things that you find immoral seems counterproductive and unhealthy.”

 Pit stares blankly.

 “... Is there any reason why you adopted this way of thinking?” Rock clarifies. “Where do you think it started?”

 “Oh, I dunno. I guess it wasn’t really on purpose or anything. A lot of my mom’s church friends think I’m going to hell ‘cause I paint my nails and wear shiny hair clips and stuff, so that made me feel really bad. Maybe I’m trying to prove them wrong or something by being really good? I dunno.” Now he knows not to come downstairs on Sunday afternoons no matter how bad he wants snacks. Not unless he wants a bunch of mean old ladies in hats glaring at him from the seats that Mom sets up in the living room of their little apartment.

 Rock’s eyes go wide. “I think, um. Is it alright if I offer you some advice?”

 “Totally, man.”

 “I think you should let yourself think whatever you want,” Rock states. “As long as you’re not actually _doing_ anything wrong, then you have nothing to beat yourself up about, right?”

 Whoa. Pit never really thought about it like that.

 But he hadn’t really told Rock the whole story, had he? Maybe he’d change his mind if he found out why Mom’s church friends _really_ think he’s an awful sinner.

 “I… kinda _am_ doing something wrong, though,” Pit mumbles. “Well, _I_ don’t think it’s wrong, but a lot of people do.”

 “What are you doing?”

 Might as well tell him now and get it over with. “W-well, uh. I sorta… think I might like guys, too. And I told my mom about it once I started thinking like that— ‘cause I tell my mom _everything_ , pretty much— and she was really, really supportive about it, ‘cause I guess she’s dated a ton of girls before and I never really noticed— so she gave me this, like, rainbow pride sweatband or whatever,” he puts his hand around his wrist, showing all his other bangles and slap bracelets. “I only ever wore it once, a-and it was at home after church when my mom left to go make more of these little tea sandwiches she makes when there’s company. All the mean church ladies stared at me. So I ran right upstairs, but I could still hear them talking about me. It was pretty bad—”

 “What do you mean you _think_ you might like guys?” Rock cuts him off. It doesn’t seem like he meant to be rude. Maybe Rock’s just as bad at reading other people as Pit is.

 Pit sort of draws a blank for a moment. “Um… I mean, I’m not really sure, y’know? Like, how can you _know_ ? I just think they're, uh, some guys are nice-looking. Like, muscles and stuff,” he stupidly gestures to Rock’s torso, immediately regretting it. “I-it’s not like I’ve ever _kissed_ a guy or anything. I’m only sure that I like girls ‘cause a girl kissed me one time and I really liked it.”  
  
“Do I know her?”

 “I don’t think so. Her name’s Phosphora Relámpago? She’s two years older than me, but she got held back one time, so, uh, she just graduated last year.” Pit lays all the way down, staring at the ceiling and clasping his hands over his chest like Rock did before. He feels sort of confused thinking about all of it. Pit doesn’t like thinking about his feelings too much. Pittoo’s the one who overthinks all his feelings, and he drives himself _insane_ with it. Relationship drama drives Pittoo so insane that it makes him want to go to stupid crowded parties at strangers’ houses and get so drunk he blacks out. The thought makes Pit even sadder. “It was nice, and I really liked her, but it was in front of a ton of people at this one football game last year. So I think she did it as a joke or something.” He sighs, and his chest aches, and he can taste that one kind of strawberry flavor lip balm that comes in a gold tin for a second. “It was a legit kiss, too. With tongue and everything. It makes me mad sometimes.”

 “That’s the only time you’ve ever been kissed?”

 Great, now Rock probably thinks he’s a loser. “Yeah.”

 “... Hey, Pit?”

 “Yeah?” he repeats tiredly, looking at him and stretching his legs out a little. The music keeps on booming from downstairs. He’s been up here for quite a while at this point. Rock’s hair is almost dry.

 Rock makes this odd sort of eye contact as he fidgets with his hands, running his thumb over his nails. He scoots up a little closer to him, then hesitates to say, “We could kiss if you wanted.”

 Okay, Pit’s sure he misheard that one. He’s got his mind in the gutter, and he’s been thinking about strawberry lip balm and lavender soap for too long. “Sorry— say that again?” he furrows his brow, sitting up straight and leaning back on his hands and looking at Rock more intensely. Rock looks sort of nervous.

 “Um… I said,” Rock’s head lolls to the side a little bit, and he tucks his hands inside the sleeves of his sweatshirt. “I said we could kiss if you want to.”

 Oh.

 Pit immediately freezes up, and his eyes go wide and his heart double-jumps. “Y… yeah,” he forces out first and foremost because _God_ does he want to kiss Rock right now, but then he starts sweating and thinking too much and he straightens his back out even more. “But, um… why would you… why, uh… _why_?”

 “... To see if you’d like it or not,” he replies softly. He pushes his hair back and it stays in place with the water that’s still left. His face is a little red. “In this case, there wouldn’t be any consequences if you ended up not liking it. The stakes aren't very high because we’re not in a relationship or anything.”

 This night has gone to some _wild_ places. Is this real? Is Pit dreaming right now? Is this his reward for trying so hard to be a good person?

 No, no, Rock isn’t a reward. Rock is a _person_. Rock is a super handsome smart kind buff person from his English class who’s super nice to him and wants to kiss him.

 … Again, is Pit _dreaming_ right now?

 He tries to speak, but the noise doesn’t leave his throat, so he just swallows and nods. And then it really starts to happen. They shuffle in closer and closer until he can feel Rock’s toothpaste-scented breath on him. And his lavender-scented soap. It’s more of a lilac smell, really. Or maybe chamomile. The music downstairs grows louder and louder. He can feel his pulse in his tongue.

 Pit feels Rock staring at him, so he forces his arms to do something. He ends up placing his hands on Rock’s shoulders, and he’s so _firm_ that Pit goes even redder. He moves his hands a little further down his arms, staring at the collar of his sweatshirt. Still firm. Good God.

 Taking the cue, Rock decides to do the same, shakily moving his hands to Pit’s forearms right below the sleeves of his t-shirt. If Pit knew he was gonna be kissing a hot guy today, he would’ve worn a nicer t-shirt instead of his stupid Flight of the Conchords one. Rock’s hands are really cold against his skin, and he jolts a little too hard because of it.

 “Sorry,” Rock almost whispers, and his voice shakes. “I have poor circulation.”

 Pit whispers back, “It’s okay,” and then he closes his eyes and leans down a bit to kiss him.

 His lips are a lot softer than he expected. It’s all gentle and there’s nothing more than their lips meeting and their hands on each other’s shoulders. Rock pulls him in a little closer and Pit feels all jittery and spastic like he’s about to clip through the floor. His grip tightens on his bicep so hard that his hand starts to tremor. It might be the best thing Pit’s ever felt in his life.

 Pit snaps his head back when he realizes he’s forgetting to breathe, inhaling quickly, clearing his throat. Rock’s eyes look kind of electric. “I-I think I _like_ you,” he huffs out nervously when it’s the only thought in his mind. “In a friend way and in a crush kind of way too.” Pit falls in love easy. He falls in love like twice a week. He feels himself start to fall in love again.

 Rock nods really fast, still staring at him. “I’m happy to hear that, because, I, I’ve had a crush on you since the school year started.” He adds, “I thought it was obvious.”

 So Pit learns two things tonight: One is that he likes guys just as much as he likes girls, and the other is that he is _unbelievably_ bad at being able to tell when somebody likes him.

 He kisses him again right after Rock says that, and he puts his hands gently on the sides of his neck so that he can hold him a little closer. Rock doesn’t seem to mind. His hand dips into the top of his sweatshirt, and he doesn’t mind either. Then Pit backs off again and says, “You can— you can take this off if you want.”

 “I thought you said you can’t talk to me easily unless I have a shirt on.”

 Pit chuckles some more, and his mind goes hot and dizzy. “Well, yeah, uh… maybe we don’t have to, like... talk.”

 Rock stares for a second, then snickers, nodding understandingly. He scoots back a tiny bit and then crosses his arms when he grips the gray hem of his sweatshirt, starting to lift it up a little, and Pit can’t hear anything but his own heartbeat, hammering against hardwood, getting closer and closer—

 Oh, wait, those are _footsteps_ , not his heartbeat. That makes more sense.

 It also makes sense when there’s suddenly a cacophony of loud knocking on the door because the party’s still going on and there are a bunch of people upstairs now. They both immediately jerk their heads to look at the door, caught off-guard. Rock freezes with his sweatshirt halfway up his chest. If Pit wasn’t scared out of his mind, he probably would’ve said something about how nice his abs look.

“No, no, _this’s_ my old room,” slurs a voice from outside the door, and Rock grimaces in a millisecond. “S’got the _biggest_ windows.”

“Open it, open it, open it,” goes Pittoo’s drunk voice from outside the door, and Pit grimaces too.

So the doorknob turns at the door slams open to reveal Pittoo with his arm around a guy in a red jacket and a yellow scarf and Squirtle-Squad sunglasses, both of them laughing stupidly and stumbling against each other in the hallway. There are a lot of other people milling around them, minding their business. Pittoo’s holding a purplish-pink bottle with white wings printed on it.

There’s this big pause where Pit and Rock are still completely frozen. “Dude, you’re the fffuckin’ _best,”_ goes Pittoo, who has probably never said anything so positive in his life. “Sick-ass house, man. This is crazy.”

Squirtle-Squad just laughs, shaking his head and taking the bottle from him and unscrewing it. “Nothin’ much. I hate this fuckin’ neighborhood. You should see our fuckin’ estate in Japan. Fuckin’ _massive_ ,” he limply throws his arm out before taking a large swig of the drink.

It takes the two in the hallway an _embarrassingly_ long time to look into the room and actually see them. Pittoo gasps and exaggeratedly slaps a hand on his face. Squirtle-Squad spits out the drink onto the hardwood.

“Hhoooooly _fuck_ ,” shouts Pittoo. “That’s Pit! That’s Pit! Dude, look, that’s him! There he is! Hey, Pit, this’s my best friend in the whole fuckin’ world right here. Just met this guy. I _love_ this goddamn guy, dude. This is Bloose. He goes to Robot College.”

“S’ _Blues_ ,” Blues corrects him, spitting onto the floor again distastefully. Oh, great. It’s Rock’s brother.

“Pit, what’re you doin’ up here? You gonna fuck that guy?” He motions to Rock, who immediately pulls his sweatshirt back down, horrified. “If you do, you gotta be safe, y’know? You gotta. Been down that road. Rule o’ thumb, here: if he doesn’t wanna wear a condom, you leave ‘im. You jis’ get _outta_ there. Jis’ go. Jis’ run. Same thing with girls, dude. Y’know, this one time with Viridi, she—” 

“ _Grosssss_ ,” goes Blues, trying to drag Pittoo away, and Pittoo just starts laughing. “Gross, gross, stop.” 

Pittoo laughs, “What’s gross?”

“ _That’s_ gross,” Blues points back to Pit and Rock. “That’s my stupidass brother.”

And then Pittoo stops laughing. His expression goes very, very dark. “No,” Pittoo glares at him, and then he gets _angry_. “That’s _my_ stupidass brother,” he growls through clenched teeth.

“Are you blind, dumbass? He’s literally my brother.”

“He’s _my_ brother.”

“No, he’s not—” 

“That’s my _twin_ brother, bitch,” and in two consecutive motions, Pittoo pushes Blues off of him and punches him square in the jaw, the force knocking him into the wall, leaving him and a framed magazine cover to fall to the floor with a clatter and a sickening _thud_. The glass bottle shatters. People crowd around and cheer a little bit. Pit gasps so loud that he feels like his lung collapses.

“Last man standin’, motha _fuckaaa_ ,” Pittoo singsongs, shaking out his hand, accomplishedly winding up and giving Blues _another_ hard kick in the leg while he’s already on the floor—

Pit jumps straight off the bed as soon as he can move a muscle, running out the doorway and stepping into the spilled liquor in his socks before grabbing Pittoo by the shoulders and shaking him hard. “No! _Jesus_ , Pittoo, what was that for? We don’t hit our friends!” He shoots Rock a panicked look before he stares sternly at Pittoo’s blank, wide eyes. He reeks of fruity alcohol. “C’mon, bro, I’m taking you home.”

“Aw, _what_? You’re not gonna fuck that guy? He’s _ripped_ ,” Pittoo whines, slumping over Pit’s shoulder. “Hey, if you’re not gonna fuck ‘im, can _I_ at least fuck ‘im?” 

“ _No!”_ Pit shakes him some more. This is depressing. “Nobody’s fricking anybody! We’re going home!”

“God damn,” Pittoo grumbles, shoving him a little bit. “Fuckin' narc.”

Pit sighs. Rock yells, “Go ahead,” over the crowd. “I’ll see you at school. Don’t forget your shoes.”

“Thank you,” he yells back, pushing past the onlookers back to Rock’s bed to give him a tiny kiss on the cheek, swooping down to grab his shoes and run out before he can see his reaction. He then scoops Pittoo up, throwing him over his right shoulder. He’s just as tall as Pit is, but he’s just as skinny and light, too.

Pittoo grumbles a ton more nonsense as they walk back down the staircase, but thankfully he doesn’t throw up or anything. He has to shove his way through the big living room, Pittoo whining and complaining all the while. Nobody really notices— except when something clatters out of Pittoo’s pocket onto the marble, and he yelps, “ _My Juul!_ ” all protectively, and a bunch of kids start cracking up. Pit doesn’t pick it up for him because Pittoo seriously needs to quit. 

It’s really, really hard to walk all the way home while carrying him— neither of them drove because Mom needed the car for work, and neither of them have any cash to call a taxi or anything. Their apartment complex is only about a mile and a half away, though, so it's doable. He lets Pittoo walk with his arm around him a couple times just to give his back a break, but he always ends up yanking the both of them over. 

“Don’ get _mad_ at me,” Pittoo says once Pit finally gets him to sprawl out on a park bench so he can put his own shoes on. “Why’d you even _come_ if you weren’t gonna drink? You’re stupid. You’re a dumbass, huh?” 

“I mean, probably,” he sighs loudly, deciding to just mess with him as he double-knots his laces. He only learned how to tie them freshman year— up until then he’d just only worn shoes with Velcro. “But you know that one thing you always talk about when people ask you what you wanna do when you graduate?”

“Whuh?”

“The thing about how you wanna stay as beautiful as you can so that you can marry rich and then kill off your spouse.”

Pittoo thinks for a second, then hums understandingly. “Yeh, you mean my life’s true goal? Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“Well, y’know the guy I was with?” 

“Yeah, the buff guy.”

“You know who owns Raito Inc.?”

“Like, the phones?” Pittoo thinks a little longer. “... S’ the old dude with the lab coats and the big beard, right?”

“That’s his dad,” Pit says all fake-proud. “That guy’s dad is one of the richest people of all time. I’m gonna make him my boyfriend, and then I’m gonna marry him, and then I’m gonna stage an accident for him and get all his dad’s money.” 

It takes Pittoo a second. And then he just says, “Hell.”

“And that’s not all— oh, wait,” Pit goes exaggeratedly hesitant, hissing through his teeth. “Jeez, I dunno if I even should tell you—” 

“Tell me!” Pittoo immediately shouts, shoving him so hard he nearly falls off the bench, and Pit has to strain to keep from laughing.

“You know that guy _you_ were with? Blues?” 

“Oh, y’mean my best friend?”

“He’s probably not your best friend anymore,” Pit adds solemnly as he stands up. “Since you punched him in the face and all.”

Pittoo’s expression falls, and he closes his eyes and nods understandingly. This is actually really, _really_ funny for Pit.

“Well, Blues was his brother. Blues is Thomas Raito’s first-born son. His heir,” he states, knowing it might not even be true because of how Rock said he probably has more siblings. “It’s really too bad you got drunk and punched him. You probably would’ve been able to marry him right once you got out of high school.” Pit clicks his tongue in sympathy, offering a hand to help him up. “Sorry, bud.” 

Pittoo goes quiet. Then he starts sniffling when he takes Pit’s hand and clumsily hoists himself to stand. “ _Noooo_ ,” he whimpers, and then he leans all his weight onto Pit’s side and starts crying all his eyeliner off and burying his face into the short sleeve of the stupid Flight of the Conchords shirt, staining it black. “N-no… I wanna be rich… I-I jis’ wanna be _rich…_ debit card got declined at the Denny’s… I fucked up so hard… lost my Juul...  _Bloose_ …”

And Pit suddenly feels very guilty. He hears a car pass blasting Mo Bamba right as he wraps his arms around Pittoo and gives him a big hug. Pittoo never lets Pit hug him when he’s sober, so he decides to make use of the opportunity. “It’s okay, man. You’ll get your chance. There are plenty of rich people in the sea.”

“O-okay.” He sniffs again. “Okay.”

“Now we know not to get drunk and punch people, right?”

“Right. Okay.”

“Now what do you have to say for yourself?” Pit says, acting like Mom to see what he’ll do.

Much to his surprise, Pittoo puts his arms around Pit and hugs him back. “Love you, man,” he slurs. “You’re my fav’rite brother I got.”

Pit smiles wide, patting him on his back. “I’m the _only_ brother you got.” 

“Yeah, yeah, exactly,” Pittoo laughs stupidly. Pit picks him up again, and they continue on their walk. “I think I’m gonna throw up,” he then notes.

“Can you wait ‘till we get home?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Do that, then.” 

_Saturday, 2:47 AM_

**Pit:** im home :D

 **Pit:** had to give pit2 a ton of water. mom was SO mad at him :,( but i got of the hook cuz im resposible brother!!!

  **Rock:** That’s great! I’m glad you got home safe.

 **Pit:** she made me soup to :-) pit2 called me a goody tissues but hes just mad cuz hes grounded LOL

 **Pit:** what's uip wit u? im real sorry for leaving. hows da party

 **Pit:** *up. sorry im sleepy -_-

  **Rock:** It’s still pretty crazy, but people are starting to go home. Also, don’t worry about leaving. You were just taking care of your brother.

 **Pit:** your the frickin best.

 **Pit:** im bout go 2 bed cuz im dumb sleepy but can i ask u somethig?

  **Rock:** Go ahead.

 **Rock:** Pit?

_Saturday, 10:24 AM_

**Pit:** OH JEEZE IM SO SORRY J FELL ASLEEP

 **Pit:** WANTED TO ASK IF UWANTED TO GO OUT ON LIKE A DATE. SO SORRY MAN

  **Rock:** It’s fine. Yes, I’d love to go on a date with you. Is this afternoon okay?

 **Pit** : SWAG SWAG SWAG

 **Pit:** dat means yes. idk why i sed Swag i havent sed that since 2012. anywasy WOOHOO WE HAVE A DATE :-D

 **Pit:** lets go 2 BREWSTERS COFFE SHOP on MIYAMOTO ST at 3PM cuz they got GR8 HOT COCOand i will PAY FOR YOURS cuz u alredy KNOW i got my ALOWANCE 2day

 **Pit:** but pls dont order somethign 2 fancy cuz my allowance is only TWENTY DOLLARS

 **Pit:** [ _A low-quality image of a baby chicken standing on a Tech Deck.]_

  **Rock:** That sounds perfect. And I’ll pay, don’t worry. See you soon!

 **Rock:** Also, I’m so sorry about my brother barging in last night.

 **Pit:** if u want 2 pay u can definitly pay i will not hold u back from doig so.

 **Pit:** plus its TOTALLY fine it was my brother 2 so no swet

 **Pit:** since it was both our brorthers it cancls out so nobody has 2 say sorry

 **Pit:** pemdas

  **Rock:** You’re right. That’s actually really smart.

 **Pit:**  of corse im right nd smart. i am: A sherlock homes.


End file.
